The Man is not an Artist

After a Hellfire Sermon

Wallace Stevens comes to mind
as the same ladies I once knew
sit in pews and dawdle in such dress
as they are used to wear.

They apply their painted smiles
and say they haven't seen me
in a while. It's been years. How have I been?
What am I doing
with my life?

They'll take anything, save an answer.

I tell them.
I want to be a writer, a poet -
An artist.

Their naked eyes detach and wander,
settling in emptiness.
Nervous laughter cuts dully
at the weighted pause.
Theirs, not mine.
Words meander out of stale coffee breath,
reaching my face, heavy and humid.

“Well - good luck with that.”

They wait for me to walk away
just far enough, before craning their necks
towards each other, sharing V shaped frowns
that, together, look
like migrant geese.

I know the thoughts that hide
between shaking heads,
and their tongues smacking “tsks.”

“Such potential as a boy.
The man is not an artist.”

Vapid gossip cannot touch my calloused pride,
but their words mix with the organ’s exit music
and rattle the covered chord inside.

Know this – my greatest fear lies in those words.

The man is not an artist.

But such judges cannot own them.

The man is not an artist.

Because I know,

The man is naught, if not an artist.